Unfinished Sympathy
by Tsundoku.u
Summary: When the cyborg is rebuilt, she finds herself struggling against two halves: her cold, pure logic, and her primitive, emotional impulses. Will she be able to force them to live together, or will they tear her apart?
1. Author's Note

**Author's Note:**

The original first chapter has been deleted, and has been replaced with a chapter from 2-D's perspective. The second chapter (which was originally the first), is being rewritten.

Anyway, I am going to attempt to write at least two or three thousand words per chapter. It might take me a couple days, but I think it's a good challenge for me.

Warnings: There will definitely be violence in the later chapters.

Thank you for the reviews! I appreciate it, guys.

Sincerely,

 _Tsundoku.u~_


	2. Chapter One

***Stuart AKA 2-D***

The man takes a nice, long drag from his cigarette and exhales, slowly, smoke curling around itself in the cold night air. He watches it dissipate with a shiver. Parting his lips, he removes the cigarette from his mouth and flicks the extra ash from the cigarette's tip with his fingers. The motion causes red hot particles to fall to the ground. Except for the cigarette's glow, he is almost hidden in the darkness. He enjoys the privacy it brings him. With a faint smile, he brings the cigarette back to his lips and his eyes slide shut.

After several minutes pass, 2-D takes a few more hits and then the cigarette is left crushed and smoldering on the cement. He hides a little while longer, leaning against the brick wall of the place where he works (he is not employed at the driving school anymore, and this pleases him more than it should). Eventually, the man shoves his hands into his pockets and passes through the parking lot. The street is too busy for him to cross. He stands underneath a broken streetlamp, on the sidewalk, waiting for an opening. A splash of green light colors his pale face, accentuating the dark circles under his eyes. Dim yellow light flickers against his back. The green turns to red, and 2-D walks over to the other side.

He could have easily waited for a bus or a cab, that he knows, but he doesn't really feel like it. He has always enjoyed walking, and he hopes this one will sober him up a little before he gets home.

Or, at least, this is what he fools himself into thinking.

The reality of it is this: He is afraid that Murdoc will be nearby when he walks through the door. Murdoc has always had the mind of an insane child, and he loves nothing more than to play games with 2-D. Sometimes, he gets lucky, and it's only yelling. 2-D will come home and Murdoc will start accusing him of some imaginary thing that he hasn't actually done. By default, of course, 2-D pretends to be sorry (he's gotten excellent at it– watch a craftsman at work). He'll automatically give Murdoc money as a sort of "incentive to forgive him." More often than not, Murdoc won't accept 2-D's apology, but the money itself will get rid of Murdoc for the rest of the night (and most of the morning, too). They both win. Murdoc is rewarded for his destructive behavior, and 2-D doesn't have to deal with Murdoc's emotional problems.

Most of the time, though, 2-D is not so lucky. He'll come home and get beaten with a cleat, a metal spatula– whatever it is that Murdoc can get his disgusting hands on. 2-D tries to take the pain and ride it until it ends. More than anything, he abhors giving Murdoc the satisfaction of seeing him break, but he almost always does, and Murdoc thinks it's the most hilarious thing in the world.

Murdoc would fight with a damn stick if he could.

It isn't a nice thing to think. He sucks in his lower lip and clamps down on it with his teeth to keep in a laugh. It doesn't work. It's not the kind of laugh a person can really deny.

As a car whips by, a woman catcalls him. 2-D waves. She waves back.

A few moments later, he's walking by a bunch of cars sitting at a stoplight. The same car from before is there, and the woman giggles. She's a lovely woman, with thick, flowing hair that she wears in a curly bun. Her skin is a deep ebony, her eyes are painted gold. 2-D thinks she might say something, but she hides, shrinking back into her seat. The woman next to her calls her a pansy and cackles. She's a shy one. 2-D doesn't want to frighten her, so he just smiles sweetly at them and continues on his way.

He thinks about her for a long time before a funny little thought enters his mind. Is it possible to laugh– a genuine laugh– without smiling? He thinks about it, growing a little weary (he has been walking for about 35 minutes or so), before deciding that, no, it isn't possible. He yawns and his eyes water.

He looks up at the sky briefly. The stars are bright and dazzling.

Next to him is a familiar stretch of stores and shops: some selling musical instruments, some pastries, clothes, pizza, coffee, movies. His face tightens as he looks ahead of him, approaching a long line of apartment buildings and houses nestled together among other things he's never paid any attention to.

He sees them and knows he is only a few blocks away from home.

He doesn't know how to feel about that.

Then another thought washes over him and it's not so amusing this time. It comes as an awfully nonchalant whisper, sounding far too friendly for its kind (like an old friend you don't want to see, a friend you never quite trusted and want to avoid, but they've seen you already and you want to get it over with).

It almost makes him stop.

( _How's the neck?_ )

2-D feels his whole body go tense. Something cold moves in his chest.

( _He'sprobablywaitingagainWAITINGforyoumaybethistimewithapanofscaldingHOTwaterorahammermaybebothwouldn'tthatbeFUN?_ )

These thoughts are everywhere inside of him, taking up every space and corner that he could have fled to for comfort.

( _Maybe it will be like last time._ )

Ahaha... no. He really doesn't want to think about last time. No thank you. He tries to close and lock the door on it, shut himself in, but his inner masochist always has a spare set of keys. His breath catches and he feels his heart rate quicken.

Last time.

(He exhales shakily.)

This is what happened last time.

It had been a wonderful evening. He'd quit his job at the driving school (a job that he loathed, that had been bad on all fronts), and had miraculously gotten his current job the very same day (an easy job where he can sell computers and other cool gadgets and still make good money while the band is on hiatus).

2-D had quit his job on a Friday two months ago and had spent all day looking for another. When it was about 8 in the evening, he gave up (but he hadn't been at it all day, of course, because for hours he was just sitting on a park bench replying to text messages from Noodle and Russel). Feeling ravenous, he made up his mind to step over to the Chinese restaurant for some take-out, when a speeding motorcyclist almost crashed into him. The motorcyclist quickly veered to the side of the road before screeching to a stop, sparing 2-D's life (but not his poor tires). The driver, who smelled of something stale and sour, asked him if he was all right. 2-D said yes, but hadn't believed it. The man wouldn't stop blabbing, and at some point 2-D had become lost in the conversation, but eventually the motorcyclist revealed that he was the owner of a small computer store and guiltily offered him a position. 2-D eagerly accepted. The bearded, terrible-smelling man informed 2-D that he could come in the following Monday morning for training.

He'd gotten a job and hadn't done anything to earn it. Fantastic.

After finishing his take-out noodles with shrimp, 2-D tucked the wooden chopsticks into the empty container and tossed it in a nearby bin.

2-D walked home after that. He checked his phone for any messages, but there were none. He plugged the earbuds in the pocket of his jeans into his phone and listened to Black Out Days by Phantogram. The music was set to shuffle. Next was Queen, Massive Attack, Beach Boys, and De La Soul. Claire de Lune by Fight Facilities began to play just as he unlocked the door to their apartment.

He stared inside, keys jingling in his right hand. The lights were off, but the television had been left on, which was enough for him to feel safe. He hummed along with the tune as he plodded into the house.

He kicked off his shoes and they went flying. He didn't know where they'd gone. He didn't care, either. He would find them in the morning. He stretched his long arms over his head, joints popping and cracking like sticks in a fire. He arched his back until it popped as well.

He wanted to go to bed upstairs, but he was exhausted. He considered the couch seriously as he stood between the TV and the coffee table. He unzipped his jacket and let it fall to the floor.

The television's light caused his shadow to dance along the wall. He was entranced by it as he removed the buds from his ears and placed the phone onto the coffee table. The TV had been muted.

He ran a hand through his messy blue hair and massaged the stubble on his face. He needed sleep. He hadn't slept in days, actually. He yawned.

And, suddenly–

Something sharp.

He could feel a pointed edge ghost up the dip in his back before settling in the middle.

Every muscle in his body was on edge, tightening painfully at the touch. He knew who it was, as the point threatened to dig deeper into his flesh. He didn't need to ask.

"Please..." 2-D whispered, voice trembling. His body was perfectly still, but his back was twitching.

He could feel something bubbling in his throat. Something like fire, burning. Acidic.

"Plea–" He started, but then a hand fisted itself in his hair and snapped his head backwards, forcing him to look at his attacker from an upside-down angle.

A pocket knife. A pocket knife only inches away from eye.

It crept a little closer. One more inch. Just one more inch and it would be touching him. ( _TOUCHINGHIM_ )

He started to breathe rapidly and deeply, hyperventilating without control.

And then it did touch him– he convulsed once and threw up all over himself.

He could feel the vomit sliding down his face and neck. Just the smell of it alone brought him to dry heave and throw up a second time.

He heard a snort. He glanced up miserably at Murdoc's swaying form. He could tell the man was heavily intoxicated.

They made eye contact, and 2-D knew he shouldn't have.

Much to his own surprise, Murdoc released him. He turned his head, away from 2-D, and remained motionless.

2-D staggered a little before catching himself. He looked at Murdoc with wide, terrified eyes.

"What...the Hell... is wrong with you?"

Murdoc swung. His fist connected hard with the side of his face and 2-D was on the ground in an instant. 2-D cried out in agony. He scrambled to get away, but he was too slow, and Murdoc was able to pin him in place and slam his head against one of the legs of the coffee table. Murdoc, in his drunken state, faltered momentarily and 2-D managed to headbutt him.

Murdoc cried out this time, but 2-D wasn't able to get the upper hand as he'd hoped. He writhed and kicked underneath the older man, but to no avail. "Get the fuck off me!" 2-D shrieked, still reeling from the pain.

Murdoc gathered himself and pinned 2-D again, only this time with more force. Sitting on his chest, he leaned very close to 2-D. His face was taut with fury at first, then it smoothed out and was expressionless.

His voice was quiet and intense.

" **No.** "

And then his hands wrapped around the younger man's throat.

The younger man thrashed against the grip with his entire body, legs, arms, everything.

2-D couldn't breathe. He was sputtering and choking violently, kicking about. He found himself clinging to Murdoc's shirt with a panicky tightness, then upon realizing who the shirt belonged to he urgently clawed at the hands at his neck. Shapes drifted into his line of vision. He was losing focus. Suffocating. There was an incredible pressure in his lungs, building.

He still doesn't know how he was able to do it. A well-placed kick to the groin (and then another) left Murdoc incapacitated. 2-D was finally able to take deep, painful gasps of air.

Had he waited any longer, he would have been killed. Fortunately, 2-D was able to flee in time to the upstairs bathroom and lock it behind him. He slept in the bathtub that night, curled around himself. He vaguely remembers shouting, but he wasn't able to process it.

Murdoc had vanished for a week following the incident. Nobody wanted to talk about it.

( _He could have died_.)

"Sweetheart?"

2-D blinks, feeling for all the world like he has just stumbled out of a dense fog.

A middle-aged lady is standing behind a counter. She is short, and he notices that she has to stand on a stool to reach the cash register. Her sleek, white hair is pulled into a loose bun.

In a daze, 2-D glances down. There are a few doughnuts, cupcakes, and several big round icing stains where cakes might have been earlier that day. He blinks nervously.

He is in a bakery, which is odd, considering that he doesn't remember turning around and going in the direction he started from.

"It's almost 9:30, sweetie. We're about to close. Would you like to buy something?"

Flushed, he nods sheepishly. "Uh..." He looks down again. "Yeah... yeah, I'll take all of these, please."

"Five custard doughnuts and two chocolate cupcakes? All right, then. Oh! Would you like a drink, hunny? We have some drinks in a cooler right over there."

"Nothing to drink, miss. Thanks, though."

With gloves on her hands, the lady slides the doughnuts and cupcakes into a peach-colored box. She is fast when she moves, making 2-D wonder... how many often has she done this before? A hundred? A thousand? It impresses him. She rings him up and he pays for it. They thank each other at the same time and laugh. She puts his box in a plastic bag, hands it to him, and then he is leaving the bakery.

2-D walks home again (he doesn't turn around this time). He walks up the front steps to the apartment, shifting the bag to his other hand while he fishes through his pockets for the keys. He finds them. He doesn't really want to unlock the door, but he does. It must be done.

He opens the door.

Thankfully, Murdoc isn't inside. Instead, what he finds, is Russel and Noodle sitting on the couch watching television. The smile Noodle gives him is so large that he is surprised her head doesn't split into two halves like a plastic Easter egg.

"2-D!" She throws her arms in the air from the couch. She is practically drowning in a sea of blankets.

2-D hands the bag over to them and plops down in the middle. They both pick doughnuts, while he himself settles for a cupcake. "Thanks for the doughnuts, 'D." Russel says.

Noodle tries to say the same, but she has crammed half the thing into her mouth and is unable to speak.

"No problem." 2-D rests his head against the back of the couch. He hears the TV and looks at it without interest. "What'cha watching?" He asks.

"Star Trek." Russel answers, taking a bite. A bit of custard drips onto his hand and Noodle sees it as an opportunity. She might as well be a vacuum cleaner.

"I worry about you sometimes, kid." Russel quips, fixing his eyes on her.

"I take after you." She shrugs. "Just so you know."

"What are you implying?"

"That it's your fault."

2-D snickers, drawing his legs onto the couch. It's pretty typical banter for the two of them; despite this, he still misses it.

The temperature seems to have dropped in the room. It's a little frigid, so Noodle shares her blankets with them. She points at the television and says to 2-D, "Kirk wears eyeliner in this episode. Well, his evil twin is wearing it, technically, but... still!"

"Boldly goin' where no man's gone before." Russel says while waggling his eyebrows.

"I think you have a mad crush on him." Noodle reaches over 2-D to prod Russel's shoulder with every word. "You want to be snogged by the captain in his chair. I can tell."

Russel frowns.

On the television, Kirk's evil parallel is depicted crying and screaming. "I WANT TO LIVE," he bawls, and the original Kirk embraces him like a mother would her child. 2-D thinks it's really... weird.

"Russel." Noodle whispers, leaning across 2-D's lap and tugging at the hem of Russel's shirt. " _Ruussseelll_."

Russel doesn't answer.

" _You like it even better 'cause there's two of him, don't you_?"

He doesn't look at her. He won't be able to keep a serious face if he does. "No I don't, man. Leave me alone."

"There is something I noticed, though. Whenever Kirk appears onscreen your pupils dilate. Y'wanna know what that means, Russel?"

Russel cranks up the volume and grabs another doughnut. Noodle holds the remaining half of her doughnut in one hand and mercilessly pokes him with the other.

"Wanna know what it means, Russel? HEY RUSSEL!"

"I WILL SHOVE THIS DOUGHNUT IN YOUR FACE, MAN."

Noodle laughs through a mouthful of bread and chocolate and custard like an absolute madman.

2-D finishes his cupcake and reaches for the box on the coffee table when he stops. He looks around the house in confusion. Huh.

Russel is about to follow up on his promise (while Noodle desperately holds him off) when 2-D interrupts them.

"Wait a minute."

They look at him. Russel has a chocolate smear above his upper lip like a mustache someone had shaved only partly off. With all the grace of the queen of England, Noodle belches. Loud.

"Why's it so clean in here?" He asks them, laughing.

Noodle doesn't laugh. Her eyes dart from him to Russel and back, which 2-D doesn't comprehend.

"I forgot about that." She says.

"We need to show you something." Russel tells 2-D in hushed tones.

They lead him up the stairs.


End file.
